The Death of Twin Flames When you stand before someone and make a vow of marriage—a covenant sacred, eternal, or at the very least bound in the trust of two souls—you are making a promise. That promise is more than words. It is safety, it is commitment, it is the declaration: You are my person. I choose you. But what does it say when you turn and file for divorce, not out of mutual tragedy or unavoidable circumstance, but out of the pursuit of freedom, “playtime,” or an easy escape from responsibility? It says that the day you made that promise, you lied. It says that your vows were deception, spoken to manipulate another into a false sense of security with you. Divorce, in this light, declares: I never truly loved you. I never intended to stay. I only remained while it benefitted me. Our time together was meaningless, pointless, and without value. When you discard a covenant in this way, you do more than walk away—you obliterate trust. You teach the one you leave that love...

When No One Shows Up It’s a special kind of heartbreak when you tell people exactly what you need — not wants, but needs — and instead of helping, they ignore you. The need to be seen. The need to be treated with the same love and compassion you give. The need to matter, not above others, but alongside them. When you dedicate your life to a partner, to a shared career, to building something together… when you pour every ounce of yourself into their hopes, dreams, and security… and then find they cannot do the same for you — especially in your darkness — it’s a wound that doesn’t close easily. And when that relationship ends, not because you wanted it to, but because you were tossed out like trash, disregarded, denied closure or understanding, it leaves a mark. When people tell you who you’re supposed to be, where you’re supposed to go, without ever asking what you truly need, it hollows you out. This kind of betrayal and neglect leaves you in a trauma-space where you shut d...

One time — just one time — I’m taking the step I’ve always been too scared to take: stepping onto a bus with no destination. It won’t erase the hurt, the pain, or the abandonment I feel. But maybe, for the first time, I’ll be able to breathe something different. Maybe I’ll find the simple distraction I need to stop staring at the wreckage of my life. It takes a desperate person to look at their entire life and say, I’ve never been worth it. Even then, you still want to cling to what you know. But leaving this time means it all has to go. I can’t carry it with me. Relationships, friendships, family — now they’re just reminders of pain and disappointment. I can’t keep pretending in this city of pretending that I’m not dying while nobody cares. It takes everything to say: I am closing myself off for my own well-being from the past 44 years and all who’ve been in it. They’ve become ghosts and jailers of my disappointments — people who arrive only out of need or convenience, but...

Sitting in Old Wounds Yesterday, today, and tomorrow I’m helping a friend with an estate sale. Estate sales are something I know like the back of my hand—I’ve been in the industry for over 20 years, and my family has always been heavily involved. But this time is different. I haven’t worked on one since before Jeffrey left. For 15 years, estate sales weren’t just a job—they were an our thing. Something we shared, something he loved, even though to me it was mostly just work. Being back in it has stirred up memories I wasn’t ready for. Customers still know me as part of that “us,” and the reminders are everywhere. It makes the air heavy, almost suffocating, because I’m not just battling the physical work of the sale—I’m battling my agoraphobia, my anxiety, and the ache of longing for something that’s gone. Yesterday was one of the hardest days I’ve had in a long time. Not because of the labor, but because of the emotional weight. Helping my friend matters to me, but I can’t ...

He Misses Me?  Last night I was told something that shook me—someone close to both Jeffrey and me said he still misses me, still wishes things could work out, and that I should show up, break through all barriers, and declare my love to him. And yes, part of me still aches, still longs for that possibility. My stomach turned at the thought, my heart both lifted and sank. But here’s the truth: I cannot move on whispers. I cannot build on rumors. I cannot place my heart above the reality that has been written in divorce decrees, lived out in actions, and spoken through silence. If Jeffrey wants me, if he truly wants to see me, it will take one word—his word. One word, and I would be there without hesitation. But until that moment comes, I must honor the truth in front of me. To break through boundaries set, to act on hearsay instead of proof, would not only be reckless but also cruel—to him, to me, and to the respect we once shared. So let it be known: my love remains, bu...

Living Inside My Mind: A Story of Survival and Hope I live inside a storm that most people can’t see. I have Severe Major Depressive Disorder, Complex PTSD, ADHD, Reactive Attachment/Abuse Syndrome, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Chronic Panic Disorder, Severe Anxiety, and Developmental Trauma Disorder. Every one of these diagnoses shapes my life, but together they create a reality that is heavy, unrelenting, and exhausting. I was first diagnosed with depression here in Pocatello, and I’ve been stuck in this city ever since. The city itself has become a stressor — its isolation, its emptiness, the sense that I am trapped — amplifying every symptom, every fear, every painful thought. Living here doesn’t just make life harder; it makes recovery almost impossible. I’ve tried almost everything. Different medications. Multiple types of therapy. Every lifestyle intervention recommended by professionals. And nothing has brought real relief. Clinically, this is called treatment-res...

A Hard Choice, and a Flicker of Hope It’s been almost a year since I came back to Pocatello, and honestly, things have only gotten worse. Mentally, spiritually, physically—I feel like I’m deteriorating in every way. Friends? I have almost none. The people I might call acquaintances, I barely see. And a lot of this I’ve already said before. I’ve been dreaming about the idea of hitting the road—12 cities, 12 months, either in a car or a bull trailer. Freedom, movement, the chance to do something. But the reality is hard. The costs are high, the logistics are messy, and honestly, my resources are too low to make that happen responsibly. Asking anyone else to help with it feels impossible right now. And so I keep coming back to a single, terrifying thought: what if I just leave? What if I ask my parents for one simple thing—buy me a bus ticket somewhere unknown, watch my dog for a while—and then I just go? Just show up in a city with a couple of bags, almost no money, no plan, ...

The Dangers of Untreated Mental Health Cheating isn’t just about sex. Infidelity isn’t limited to physical acts. For me, it’s about trust—trust that is broken, intentionally, by someone who promised loyalty. It’s about betrayal in all its forms: emotional, secretive, and disloyal. It’s the small and large ways a person chooses themselves over the bond you share. Looking back at my relationship, I see now that I was caught in a constant state of emotional turbulence—a whirlwind of intense highs and devastating lows that made everything feel unpredictable. My life became defined by his inner chaos. It was a relationship of extremes. One moment, I was the center of his universe, idealized and praised as the most wonderful person. The next, I was the “arch villain” in his story, the source of all his pain and frustration. This sudden shift wasn’t about anything I did; it was a reflection of his inability to see me as a whole person—someone both good and flawed. Instead, he saw ...

The Law of Love There are truths whispered by sages, truths etched into scripture, and truths that resound like thunder through the cosmos. But there is one Law greater than all—carved in the stone of stars, forged in the fire of creation itself. Do nothing for love. Do all things from love. This is the First and Final Law. The False Altar: Doing For Love To act for love is to stumble into corruption disguised as devotion. It is a bargain struck in shadows, a bribe cloaked in virtue’s veil. It is hunger masquerading as holiness, a false altar where the worshiper kneels not to give, but to feed. When you act for love, you place your soul upon the scales, waiting for another’s coin. You offer not from fullness but from need, not from strength but from lack. And so every act becomes a transaction, every gesture a gamble. This way is selfishness in sacred robes, greed wearing sacrifice’s mask. This way is chain and consumption, withering and death. Every act done for love dies ...

The Reason I Will Never Heal There are moments in life that etch themselves into your being—moments you cannot escape, no matter how many years pass. For me, that moment happened on what should have been an ordinary evening, yet it became the night I spoke words that can never be taken back, words that haunt me still, words that defined not only my love but also my undoing. Jeffrey and I had been circling conversations about closing the company and doing something different. One of my lifelong dreams has been to open a bistro. The thought of creating a place where people gather over food and warmth has always lived inside me. Jeffrey loves to cook, so the dream felt possible. That night, while Jeffrey was working a janitorial clean we had at the old hookah bar down off Center Street, I went to dinner at my sister Sarah’s. Over that meal, I talked with her and my brother-in-law about the bistro idea, about change, about futures that seemed just within reach. Later, I met Jef...

The Day the Ledger Is Balanced There will come a day for every one of us — not a rumor, not a metaphor, but a final, undeniable moment. The breath slows, the room narrows, and everything you thought you could tuck away or forget is drawn into the light. That instant — the moment between life and what comes next — is an accounting. Not some idle judgment passed by strangers or society, but the deep, absolute balancing of the ledger of your heart. All the wrongs you did. All the promises you broke. All the vows you let fray into silence. All the small cruelties and the great betrayals — they will stand up and be counted. There will be a tally of love withheld, of mercy denied, of compassion traded for convenience. There will be a weighing of the weight you carried in secret and the weight you pressed onto others. The ledger does not negotiate. It does not bargain with excuses or paper over the cracks. This is not the dogma of one creed alone. It is a golden law that threads t...

Leaving — a severance of forty-four years I’m preparing to leave. This isn’t one of those posts about a new chapter full of hopeful turns. It’s cleaner — and crueler — than that. When I say I’m severing the past forty-four years, I mean exactly that: a final, necessary cut. I don’t want to look back because looking back only brings pain now. There was a time when my life looked full of color and beauty. Even with trauma and all the nonsense I’ve lived through, I could once see light in the edges. Those colors have gone. When I think of my life — from childhood into adulthood — what comes up first is the hurt: being left, being dropped, hospital rooms where no one stayed, the feeling of abandonment threaded through everything. The brightness has faded until all that’s left is the damage. I’ve started to map everything and it all looks the same: rooted in trauma. It’s rooted in being left. It’s rooted in feeling disposable and transactional. That’s not an exaggeration or a mo...

Where I’m Really At Right before Christmas, when I was in the hospital, they found that I have a narrowing in my spinal canal and thickening in my spine. It’s something that can’t be fully corrected without surgery. For now, physical therapy is supposed to help slow things down, but every time I try to go, I end up having panic attacks — from being touched, from being there alone. Because of that, I haven’t been able to keep it up. Without therapy, it’s likely that surgery will be needed sooner rather than later. My symptoms have been getting worse — my legs and arms feel weak, and I’ve even had numbness in my groin. I know that’s serious. My case is being monitored at the University of Utah, but I haven’t followed up since leaving the hospital. My doctors are already telling me to apply for Social Security Disability, and I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do. On top of the physical stuff, my agoraphobia has been worsening. I can only handle being out in public for ab...

Home Is a Verb For so long, I thought of home as a destination. A fixed place. Four walls, a roof, an address that would anchor me to the earth. Maybe that’s why I’ve wrestled with the paradox of craving the open road and dreaming of a homestead. Both longings circle around the same ache: to feel at home. But here’s what I’m beginning to realize—home isn’t just a noun. It isn’t only a place you arrive at or purchase or inherit. Home is a verb. It’s something you do, something you create, something you embody. The truth is, when I’m single, the routine of life wears me down fast. The same roads, the same stores, the same coffee shop, the same day on repeat—it grinds the spirit. My own perspective can get worn out when it’s the only one I have to live inside. Stagnation is what kills me. The cookie-cutter routine, the rinse and repeat, the feeling that nothing new is unfolding—it makes me restless, even hopeless. But when I’m partnered, everything shifts. Because suddenly the...

Listening to the Heart: The Goldilocks Lesson It was always my dream with my ex that we’d take a year and just live in an RV, moving with the seasons, a month here, a month there. Not putting down permanent roots, but letting the road itself be our home. In many ways, that dream is still alive in me. The only difference is that now, I’m preparing to take that step alone. That’s no small thing. To venture out into the world solo, carrying only what I need, trusting myself to navigate new towns, new jobs, new faces—it feels risky. But the truth is, staying in one place when it no longer feels right is an even greater risk. Because I’ve tried the porridge. I’ve tried the beds. And like Goldilocks, I’ve discovered that none of them fit. The story of Goldilocks is more than a fairy tale about a girl in a bear’s house. To me, it’s a parable about listening to your own soul. She didn’t settle for “too hot” or “too cold.” She didn’t pretend the chair that hurt her back was fine. Sh...

Restless Roads and Rooted Gardens It’s always been a dream of mine to have a pull trailer or an RV—something I could hitch to my car and just go. If I had the means, I’d invest in a modernized caravan, sleek but simple, a little home on wheels. I imagine traveling freely, working online, taking odd jobs or temp gigs in new towns, exploring as far as my heart and curiosity could carry me. What many people don’t know about me is that I get antsy—unsettled—if I stay in one place too long without something grounding me. The stillness can turn anxious. I begin to wonder about the world beyond the horizon: who’s out there, what’s out there, what I might discover if I keep moving. And yet, here’s the paradox: when I’m partnered, I can root deeply, and quickly. Give me love, and suddenly any place—whether city or countryside—becomes a garden I can tend, a stream I can rest beside. It’s not that I think the grass is greener elsewhere. What I’m really looking for is the garden I can ...

Before the Tracks Are Laid I am beginning again. From the dust of everything I once called mine. Love. Security. Companionship. Stability. Career. All lost. All vanished. And now, what remains is the labor of rebuilding—brick by brick, track by track, engine by engine—guided by hands that are my own, guided by necessity, guided by the One. I build slowly. Deliberately. Every block, every measure of forward motion, carries weight. Every decision, every inch of movement, carries the cost of solitude. The foundations I lay must be mine alone. They cannot be shifted. They cannot be altered. They cannot be compromised by another whose presence has not been proven, whose loyalty has not been tested. Once the engine begins its course, unstoppable, there will be no rewinding. There will be no bending the tracks. There will be no negotiating with momentum. The space between two people is sacred. It is not emptiness. It is the shared ground where two engines might someday move in par...

If I Was Gone Tonight If I was gone tonight, would anyone notice? Would the world hiccup, rearrange, hold its breath for a moment? Or would it slide on, polite and practiced, leaving a small wake of texts and an obligatory memorial—pictures posted, teary comments, a few people who remembered to show up? I’ve been turning this over in the dark: the strange arithmetic of presence and absence. We mark births with candles and parties; we mark deaths with flowers and hashtags. But what about the long, quiet in-between where no one calls to say hello? What about the spaces where you exist and nobody asks to stay? I’m not begging. Let’s be honest: I’m not standing on a street corner with a sign, pleading for company. I don’t need a rescue. What stings is simpler and colder — the pattern. If I died tonight, the calculus says: a few people would gather because it’s what you do. A handful would attend because memory or duty nudges them. There might be a small wake, a small memorial. ...

The Sacred Power of Radical Authenticity We live in a world built on layers of masks. Expectations, performances, roles we play to keep ourselves safe. But what if safety itself has become the cage? What if freedom lies not in hiding, but in the courage to reveal—fully, fiercely, and without apology? This is the heart of radical authenticity: the return to the unshakable truth of self. Radical Authenticity: The Self as Temple Radical authenticity begins inward. It is the refusal to fracture, to present one face while living another. It is the commitment to strip away all disguises until what remains is raw and real. When we hold ourselves in this integrity, authenticity ceases to be an act we perform for others—it becomes a frequency we radiate. Others feel it. They are invited into it. It spreads like fire. Radical Truth: The Objective Core Truth is often confused with feelings or perspectives. But radical truth is not interpretation—it is fact. It is zeros and ones, black...

The Sacred Mission of the Wandering Mystic: Herald of the Panthea Way I, Lucifer Sebastian Raphael Windsoul Luxferian, officially known as L. Sebastian Raphael Windsoul L., The Sovereign Flame, The Most Holy Reverend Guardian, Hierophant Supreme, Supreme Sybil, Priestx Supreme, The Holy Za Za, hereby step fully into my sacred identity as The Wandering Mystic. I move through the world not for amusement, not for novelty, not for the fleeting whims of human desire. I move for the True and Ever-Living Gods, for the hearth fire, for the ancient ways renewed, for the sacred laws that endure through time. I am not “new age.” I am Tradition Restored, Belief Renewed, and I walk as a living vessel of that restoration. My Mission: I preach, teach, and initiate in the ways of the gods, restoring sacred knowledge, ritual, and practice wherever the divine flame calls me. I consecrate sacred spaces and living beings, creating sanctuaries of the divine and awakening the spark of divinity i...